nothing's fair in love and war
by Lavender Flame
Summary: In a land soon to be torn apart by a bloody war, Cinna Benecy and Portia Adaline gave their lives for something else: love. Their story, from before their preparation for the seventy-fourth Games until their deaths.
1. Chapter 1

When Cinna woke, someone was kicking the side of his bed repetitively to rouse him. "Cinna." _Thud. _"Cinna." _Thud. _"Cinna." _Thud._

"How'd you get in 'ere?" he grumbled, eyes still closed, half asleep.

"Once again, your security system's crap. It took about thirteen seconds to hack. The hardest part was navigating this mess you call a house. Now get _up_," said Portia.

"You break into my house, start kicking my bed, insult me, and it's only—" he glanced at the alarm clock, and at the gray rays of sunlight shining in over the Capitol mountains "—the crack of dawn, apparently, and you want me to _get up_?"

"I started coffee."

"I'm there." He started to move.

"Black coffee. You're out of milk."

"I hate you." He slumped back into the soft sheets.

"It's not my fault you don't have any frickin' milk."

"You should've brought some," he mumbled.

"I didn't know."

"Well, you seem to know _everything _else."

She shoved him. "Get up. Last chance, Cinna."

"Why?"

"Letter from the Remake Center came. We have to report there today for some final paperwork to be registered as stylists. Oh, and we're moving in together."

Cinna spluttered on the air and blindly swiped at the cardstock postcard Portia held in her hand. Wide-eyed, he scanned the first part. "How's that supposed to help anyone?"

"I can't be that awful to put up with."

Cinna blinked at her.

"I won't have to break into your house anymore," she tried mock-cheerfully. There was a beep from outside the room. "Ooh, coffee's done." And she just as mockingly skipped out of the room, exaggeratedly maneuvering around the sketches and fabrics and books and sketchpads strewn everywhere.

He started forcing himself up, groggily rubbing his eyes, stretching, yawning, smelling the coffee, and finally stumbling towards the kitchen, where Portia had poured two mugs of coffee. "I don't know how you drink this," he said, trying one anyway. Again he spluttered. "What, did you spike it or something? That's way too strong to be natural."

Portia offered a shrug and half-smile. "Cheers," she said simply, and took a long sip of her own coffee. Cinna noticed that she looked plenty awake already—gray eyes alive, short, dark hair pulled into a high, tight bun, already dressed in black combat boots and pants, a gray long-sleeved shirt. He always thought she was pretty.

In any case, she was much better off than Cinna, still in pajamas, a bit red-eyed from lack of sleep, hair as mussed as it could be at its short length. He gave up on the coffee, and attempted to be polite. "Have you eaten?"

"Of course."

"_Eaten_ eaten, or _you _eaten?"

"_Me_ eaten." He gave her a look. "I had a vanilla protein shake. And a banana." He still looked at her. "It was organic."

He sighed, and backtracked. "What's all this about us moving in together?"

"Government orders," she said. "It'll be right by the Remake and Training Center. Supposed to make our work more efficient since we'll be together and in a special kind of apartment."

"Great," he said, rubbing at his eyes again.

She smacked his hand away. "That's bad for you."

"So's waking up at dawn."

"Studies say differently."

Cinna groaned.

"Go get dressed. Then we'll go talk to them."

"Fine." He left to get ready, and Portia started trying to sort out some of the clutter in the kitchen, cleaning the mugs, rolling her eyes at Cinna's untidiness. He returned quickly, in a better state, dressed in black, pants and long sleeves.

"Better," she smirked. "Let's go."

"We're not calling a cab?"

"We can walk."

He sighed again, and followed her, setting the alarm code. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was his own age and not his mother or something. Then again, they'd met because they were in the same year in design school.

—Outside, the sky was mostly clear, but it was somewhat cold, with a slight breeze. Cinna thought about the postcard again. _CINNA TIMEUS BENECY AND PORTIA RENAE ADALINE, WE ARE CONTACTING YOU TO INFORM YOU THAT AS OF MONDAY, FOR EFFICIENCY PURPOSES, YOU ARE BOTH TO MOVE TO…._

He suddenly toppled over something and almost hit the sidewalk before steadying himself. Given by Portia's amused look, she'd tried to stop him or trip him or something in between. "We're here," she announced/reminded him.

"Oh," was all he said, and they turned to go through the sliding doors and approach the reception desk. He explained why they were there to the person at the desk.

"One moment," they said, and disappeared off, leaving Cinna and Portia alone, quickly coming back. "If you'll have a seat, Mr. Prosir will be in shortly."

"Thank you," said Cinna, and they sat in the waiting area.

"I hate Prosir," Portia muttered to him. "Thinks he rules the world."

"Just the fashion world," said Cinna.

The door to the left of the reception desk opened. It was Mr. Prosir, an older man with thinning yellow hair showing a hint of natural gray at the roots, and deep orange eyes. "Oh, yes, you two. I remember you. You're new, correct?"

"Doesn't mean we're idiots," mumbled Portia while they walked over, and Cinna nudged her.

"Yes, sir; we are," he said, with a pleasant, if forced, smile, and handshake.

"Good, good… means I'm not loosing my memory quite yet."

"Or your nastiness," Portia continued mumbling. Again Cinna nudged her.

Mr. Prosir gestured for them to follow him through the door. They did. Cinna closed it behind them, and the three moved down a plain hallway decorated only with portraits of significant past stylists until they arrived in Prosir's office. It was another plain room with a desk in the center, with a golden triangular prism plaque bearing his name: _FELIX PROSIR, HEAD HUNGER GAMES STYLIST. _Around the sides, at the right angle, they could see pictures of his family—a radiant young woman with equally yellow hair and a lot of makeup, presumably his wife, and a boy somewhere in his teens with dark teal hair, tattoos, and a constant scowl, presumably his son.

Mr. Prosir sat on the other side of the desk and again gestured at them, this time to sit, in two chairs across the desk from him. "Now," he said, shuffling a stack of papers on the table for no apparent purpose, "Before we start on the paperwork, I sense our instructions weren't clear. What were your questions?"

"They were perfectly _clear_," snapped Portia, "but there has to be more to it than that. What are we supposed to do with our current places? How are we paying for the new apartment? What's available there? What about—"

Mr. Prosir waved one hand to quiet her. Cinna just squeezed her hand under the table in the hopes it might keep her from murdering someone in the next five minutes. "With your consent, we'll use the information from the forms you've given us to make arrangements for your current living quarters for you. The new apartment will be paid for out of your salaries, split evenly between the two of you, through the Remake Center, and we got a bargain on it. And each one is fully furnished. Here's a brochure on the complex if you want to know more." He slid a pamphlet across the table, hesitantly, as if expecting Portia to snatch it from him. "So you really have nothing to worry about except moving your things, probably through a service."

"What paperwork did we have to come here to do?" she asked.

Mr. Prosir slid more papers towards the two of them, along with two ballpoint pens. "There's just consent for our making the arrangements for you, your new salary plans, and some forms from the apartment complex."

For the next few minutes there was quiet while they read over the forms and signed everything without further questions. It was just as Mr. Prosir had stated.

"So that takes care of that," he said, filing the papers.

"_Good_," Portia said curtly, standing up.

Cinna joined her. "Thanks for your help, sir," he said, and they shook hands once again before Cinna and Portia left, back down the plain hallway, out the empty waiting area, and finally into the cool Capitol breeze.

"There are so many things to do before _Monday_!" she ranted. "We have to tell everyone we're moving, and figure out how we're transporting everything, and deal with the things we're not packing, and pack the things we are, and decide _when _we're doing all of this, for Panem's sake—"

"I'm sure we'll have it done in time," Cinna assured her, and looped an arm around her shoulders, a purely friendly gesture.

"I guess." They reached an intersection. "I should go home. Start on all that. I'll call to set an actual moving time with you."

"Sounds good," he said, and withdrew his arm. The light right turned red and Portia crossed the street while Cinna waited for the other. When she was out of sight, the other light turned red, and he crossed that way, didn't think of much interesting for the whole way home.

There, he regarded the chaos with the same disdain Portia had earlier. She was right. It would make it hard to pack. Not sure where to even start, he instead decided to pick up the phone and call his mother to let her know.

The phone rang once. The phone rang twice. Drusilla Benecy was a permanently forgetful and permanently frazzled woman, which was why marriage hadn't agreed with her. The phone rang three times. "Hello!" chirped not Drusilla, but Cinna's sister, Liviana.

"Hi, sis."

The permanently-cheerful Liviana still lived at home, in her last year of high school. "Long time no chat," she said.

"Yeah."

"What's up?"

He decided to get to the point quickly. "I have to move for work. I just wanted to give you two the new address."

"Everyone knows you're moving. You're in Apartment 798 in the Pantheon Complex on Vestes Street. Easy." Cinna blinked at the phone, fully aware that she couldn't see him. "Hello?"

"Sorry. How do you know that?"

"My friend's brother's girlfriend's cousin is on the prep team for District Nine and they said that all the stylists are moving to the same complex and they were in Apartment 795 with District Ten in Apartment 796. So I calculated that you and your girlfriend are in 798, of course in the same complex, and I looked up the street."

"Portia's not my girlfriend," he said for the thousandth time.

"That's what you got out of all of that?"

"And the 'friend's sister's boyfriend's aunt' thing."

"That wasn't it."

"I know." There was silence for a second. "Well, that was all I called for. Give Mother my best."

"I will." There was a crash in the background. "I should check on her."

"Yeah. I'll see you sometime."

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

He hung up, but promptly started calling all of the services he used to inform them, a tiring process. He had to tell people to turn the gas off, the electricity off, on, and on, and on…. It seemed to go on for eternity.

It was only after dusk. The process appeared to have finally ended. Cinna relaxed back into the couch, letting his eyes close. And then the phone rang.

He looked at the number.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," he told no one, and answered it.

He hadn't said hello yet when Portia started with, "I found a moving service that gives you free boxes if you sign and agree to donate things you're not taking with you to charity."

"Great," he said. "Where is it?"

"Over on 2nd Street. I called a cab this time. I'm coming by your place first; I should be there in a few minutes."

"Great," he repeated, although he felt as if he couldn't move, drained from the day of phone calls. "So they'll move things for us?"

"Sunday at six," she confirmed.

"_A.M.?_"

"Of course." He could hear the smirk in her voice.

"Fine," he agreed. "We'll have to start getting up for work anyway."

"_You'll _have to 'start'."

"Don't rub it in."

"Yeah, yeah." There was a beat. "I'm in front of your house."

He got up, opened the front door, and then went back to hang up the phone, grabbed his bag, went back out, setting the alarm code behind him—not that it apparently made much difference. He sat in the backseat of the cab next to Portia, and they started moving.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, yourself."

"Isn't the cab driver ugly?"

Cinna gave her an odd look. The cab driver remained oblivious past the screen.

"Good, he can't hear us."

"Does it matter?" he asked.

Portia shrugged.

"Have you started calling everyone?"

"Yes," she said. "Only what I've been doing all day."

"Same here."

"I might finally get out of the Capitol Community Home 5 newsletter subscription that I never actually requested."

"Hmm," he said, not wanting to say much on her Community Home topic.

"I heard from Laelia and Quince, too."

"The Tailor cousins?"

"Mmhmm. They got Eleven."

"Good for them. They deserve it."

"They already started moving. Laelia posted a picture." She showed him it on her cell phone.

Laelia and Quince stood in front of a huge pile of boxes, giving thumbs-ups. Laelia still had the long, wavy hair tinted with the magenta of the flower she was named for, which she had clipped to the top and bottom of the loose braid she sported today. But Quince had changed color schemes, his hair, skin, and clothes leaning towards blue over green. But he had the same broad smile as ever.

"Nice," said Cinna, and she turned the screen off.

They arrived in front of the moving service. Portia paid the cab driver despite Cinna's protests and they went inside. Suddenly Cinna felt very tired—it seemed as if the air in the service had something in it that made him unable to stay awake. So the meeting went by in a bit of a blur. Portia had apparently worked out most of the details with them over the phone already—they just had to sign and pay, and they each took a large stack of tightly folded up boxes with them into the cab.

They went to Cinna's house first. Portia helped him get all of the boxes into the house. "Thanks," he said.

"Mmhmm." She started back down his few cement front steps. "I'll see you Sunday, if not sooner."

He nodded, and then followed her to the curb, opened the cab door. "Sunday," he echoed. "… Or sooner."

She closed the door behind her, and the cab quickly left. He went back inside, and didn't bother to change his alarm code before he went to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Cinna had just finished the packing process. It was six o'clock Sunday morning, and he was exhausted. He'd been up all night finishing putting things into boxes.

So naturally, the front door flew open and hit the opposite wall with a _crack_ that actually made him jump for the jolt it sent into his already-pounding headache. He blinked against the sunlight and cold air flooding into the house from outside, behind where Portia stood, right on time.

"You didn't label these by contents?!"

"Good morning to you, too."

"You can't label these boxes with your name, Cinna."

"Well, I hadn't finished yet," he yawned.

"Were you up all night?"

"No." Portia glared at him. "Fine. Yes."

"Procrastinator."

"I know."

"You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I know," he repeated.

"Have you at least had coffee?"

"How do you think I stayed up all night?"

The movers appeared in the doorway. Portia vaguely waved at them. "Just… put it in the truck. There's apparently no organization required. Just keep it separate from my stuff."

"So you already emptied your place?"

Portia nodded.

"Should we be helping?"

"No. That's what we're paying them for."

The boxes started to disappear out of the room around them in a flurry of the movers' white uniforms and the brown cardboard. "We're all ready to set out, ma'am," one of the movers told Portia.

"Great," she said, rather unenthusiastically. "The cab just pulled up."

So Cinna and Portia got in the cab, which followed the moving truck. Cinna leant against the window and just tried to not fall asleep. At some point Portia reached over and pressed painkillers into his hand, quickly drawing away. Cinna mumbled thanks and took them.

The ride seemed long, since he kept nodding off, sliding down against the window. He was only good at staying up if he was designing. Not packing.

Finally they pulled up in front of the Pantheon Complex. Portia nudged him. Cinna sat up, blinking to wake himself, and felt dizzy all the way until they were talking to the receptionist in the complex lobby, settling the last few things, dealing with the last few forms.

"All right, that'll be it. Should be at the right end of the hall on the seventh floor. Let me know if you need anything," said the receptionist, with a thick Capitol accent.

"Thank you," Cinna said, and Portia directed the poor movers the right way. Cinna had decided not to protest, so they took the elevator alone to the seventh floor. There, he examined the hall—rather wide, with ornate imitation-wood doors and platinum room number plaques, brightly lit from the ceiling coated with light panels, cream walls with the virtual carpet underneath them swirling in a variety of woodsy colored patterns.

They reached the end, where under a city-overlooking window that took up half of the outside wall, a table sat with a vase of fresh, white roses on it. Their door was almost right next to it—_798_. Cinna entered their passcode into the device—two, one, seven, three—and the door opened with a flash of the tiny green light.

They looked around—two bedrooms each with an attached bathroom, temperature control available, a washer and dryer included in the furnishings. The electricity and water and all worked, with some food there, and the beds made, towels hung up. There was a table with chairs, kitchen counter space, sinks, a stove and oven, a fridge, a television, a fireplace, a couch and such, cupboards filled with utensils and devices, trashcans, all the basics, very well furnished, ready to live in except for the personal things they'd brought with them, really.

The movers arrived behind them. "Oh, great," Portia said. She looked at Cinna. "The rooms are both the same, do you care where you are for some reason?"

"Not really," he said, still trying to wake up, and so Portia directed the movers to put all of Cinna's things in one bedroom and all of hers in the other.

The process seemed to go quickly, another blur of brown cardboard and white uniforms, until the movers were gone, the door closed behind them, and they were left alone, both sitting on the couch.

It was her turn to ask, "Have you eaten?", quiet for her, but not soft.

Again he tried. "Yes." And another glare. "Fine. No."

"I'll get you something," she said, exasperated, standing up, and heading for the kitchen. "What'll you complain about the least?"

"Something with a lot of sugar in it," he mumbled, rubbing his temples.

In the kitchen, Portia used the digital counter surface to order food that soon appeared through a temporary opening in the wall. She brought it back to Cinna, tossing the bag and bottle to him, and then sitting on the couch again. "It's a muffin with sugar in it and a protein shake."

"What is it with you and protein shakes?" he asked, starting to eat the muffin anyway.

"They make me feel like I'm trying."

"Hmm. This muffin is sweet."

"You requested sugar, and much as I disapprove, I came through."

"And I appreciate that," he grinned.

Portia rolled her eyes at him. "You'll need the energy for unpacking, since you did such a shitty job of packing in the first place."

Cinna shrugged.

"You're so frustrating. … All right, my turn for painkillers. You're giving me a headache and I think I pulled a few things packing." She got more and a water bottle out of the bag she'd brought with her in the cab, and took them as Cinna had, putting back the water bottle.

Cinna started drinking the protein shake just to avoid the look that Portia was giving him.

In a few minutes, he threw away the empty bag and bottle and sat on the couch again. Almost as soon as he did, Portia stood up. "I'm turning the heat up, it's freezing in here."

Cinna groaned. He had thought that it was warm in the room. But he knew better than to try and argue with Portia about things like temperature settings. When Portia returned, he noticed that she almost seemed to be shivering and he rolled his eyes at her.

"I'm going to start unpacking, as you should," she said, and headed to her room.

He should've started unpacking. But it took him a bit to start moving, digesting the food. Then he examined the boxes in his room. Well, the room was furnished well enough that there wasn't much that was so urgent to unpack. Just entertainment things that he would want to use. So after shaking a couple of boxes, he found a heavy one that didn't make much noise, which seemed to be one with some of his books, so he set about opening it, trying to cut or tear off the tape.

And he couldn't do it.

He got scissors and a box cutter and a knife and pretty much any tool that he could find provided in the apartment, and got nowhere. So he left for Portia's room. She had already set about organizing all of her things around the room, and he gaped at her.

"What?" she demanded.

"I can't open the box."

"What box?"

"Any of them."

"Which boxes?"

"The moving boxes," he said.

"Are you fricking kidding me?"

"Sorry," he said.

Portia rolled her eyes and went to his room with him, in one move each tore off each strip of tape on the top of the box, and reached far enough to open all the layers of the box in another one move. "You're pathetic," she said, and while he started "unpacking" the books in that box—tossing them onto the bed—she started opening the other boxes for him.

When she was done, she said, "If you need help getting milk from a bottle or changing your diaper, I'll be in my room."

"I'm not a baby," he whined after her.

"Oh, please!" she called back.

He resumed unpacking book and art things and everything else, putting them in whatever seemed the most appropriate places, not bothering too much with organizing yet. …. Not that he would probably ever end up getting there.

But by the time the day was over, even with some breaks, everything was out of the boxes, although mostly scattered around randomly. There was nothing on the bed, so that he could sleep, although he wasn't planning on going there soon.

And as soon as he thought it, Portia appeared in his room. "_Hi_," he said, smiling sarcastically. "Please, come in."

"I'm going to bed," she said. "Just letting you know so you can keep the noise down."

"It's kind of early," he said, almost confused.

"Well, not all of us are up at all hours. Some of us have sleep schedules and don't procrastinate and don't usually sleep until noon."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I won't start a rock band while you sleep."

"I appreciate it," she said. "I'm going."

"Goodnight," he said, while she left.

Maybe he would sleep. He was still tired from staying up all night before, although it had dulled by then. So he got ready for bed, then lay there in pajamas and read a book he'd found again in unpacking. But his mind also raced—tomorrow was their first day of work. A huge day.

Finally he set the book aside and turned off his light. He'd need to be well rested.

But he was restless. He tossed and turned for more than an hour before falling asleep, long for him, and had strange dreams, seeming half awake, still tossing a lot, and waking up frequently. He woke up one time at around three but felt as if something had woken him, rubbing at his eyes blearily.

Something _had_ woken him. Portia stood next to his bed.

"Portia, it's three in the morning. It is _way_ too early to be getting up for work."

"I'm not getting up for work," she said, very quietly for her.

He sat up a bit. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I just don't feel that well. Could I stay with you?"

"Sure," he said, and shifted towards the right side of his bed, laying down again, let her crawl in next to him, curled up close to his side, looping her arms around his neck, head on his shoulder. Portia ill was like some people drunk—clingy and affectionate. Which was a sharp turnaround from the usual. But he looped an arm around her anyway.

"Will you be okay for the morning?" he asked.

She nodded, coughing into one arm. But then again, she always said she was fine.

"Have you taken anything for it?"

She nodded again.

"Okay. Just try to sleep, then, snowflake."

"You always call me that when you're tired," she murmured, sounding somehow more congested than she had even the last time she'd spoken.

"I call you that when my judgment is lapsing."

"Why?"

"Because if I was thinking about it, I'd realize that normally you'd slap me for that. And now, I'm letting you stay here even though you're going to get me sick."

"Mmhmm," was all she said, and then she was asleep.

He again rolled his eyes at her. But thinking about things through the day, it made sense that she was ill—taking the painkillers and turning up the heat earlier, going to bed early.

He decided to try to fall asleep. He was going to be so tired in the morning. So was Portia, probably. She started coughing in her sleep and Cinna stroked her hair soothingly, his hand going still as he fell asleep again.

… And jerked awake what seemed like a rather short time after, but a glance at the clock showed almost five.

Portia was sitting up, legs hanging over the other side of the bed, a small trash can in hand, leaning over it. Cinna turned the light on, moved to her side, held her hair back instinctively while she did something like gagging, finally throwing up into it.

"I don't think you're going to be okay for work," he said, patting her back rhythmically with his free hand.

"I can go—" she started to protest, before she resumed throwing up. In a few minutes, it seemed to be over, and after cleaning up, Cinna felt her forehead.

"You're burning up," he said. "You're not going."

"But it's our _first day_," she almost whined, letting herself fall against him, arms again around his neck. "And what are you going to do without me?"

"Well, clearly, I'm staying here."

"Why would you stay here?"

"Because it's a bad idea to leave you alone and this sick."

"I'm not a child."

"Still," he said sternly. He sighed. "I'll call and leave a message." He attempted to disentangle Portia from him with only relative success, tucking her in again. "I'll be back."

She only went into a sneezing fit in return.

Cinna went to find the phone and, indeed, called, playing up how sick Portia was and not emphasizing his own reasons for staying home, and being as apologetic as possible. Great. They were missing their _first day. _They would start off behind, and now their prep teams would probably have very little direction.

He got a bottle of water from the fridge, some tissues from the bathroom, and there wet a washcloth and mostly wrung it out. Then he returned to his room, set the water and tissues down on the nightstand on the side of the bed that Portia had taken, and laid the cloth on her forehead.

Then he sat on his own side. "Can I get you anything else?" he asked, his voice suddenly sounding tired as he yawned. It was still too early.

Portia shook her head weakly, hugging his arm tightly to her, head against it.

"Try to go back to sleep. You need rest."

"Okay," she mumbled, for once agreeable, and Cinna, not shaking off her grip, shifted to lie down again, too, and quickly drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

Portia stirred again at six-thirty. It had only been an hour, but she was apparently programmed to wake up with the dawn. She groaned and buried herself into the blankets and pillows and Cinna, throwing the washcloth formerly on her forehead to the floor. She still felt terrible.

Cinna started to wake with all that, unable to keep his eyes open for more than a second. "Ulgbluhguh?" he asked her seriously. Portia blinked up at him. "Hulg deblug ueb fler?" Another blink. "Ow de yeh ferl?"

"Cinna."

"How do you feel?" he got out slowly, still trying to open his eyes.

"As shitty as I did before," she grumbled, sniffling, shifting to rest her head on him more securely.

"You're cheery," he said, trying to stretch, which she smacked him for. "I can't feel my arm," he complained. "You've claimed it for the last—" he looked at the clock "—three hours. And i_t's six-thirty in the morning_, what are you doing awake, anyway?"

"Mmgh," she said, slightly moving so he could get some of his arm circulation back.

"Drink some water," he yawned.

"I'm not thirsty."

"It's what's best for you."

"I don't really—" she started coughing "—give a fuck right now," she snapped, the effect somewhat lost with her congestion and coughing fit in the middle of it, and tightened her grip on his arm again. And then, after a few seconds, she changed subjects: "I'm cold."

Cinna really, really did _not_ want to get up. He was still trying to _wake_ up. "I'll turn the thermostat up," he said, before his brain processed where the thermostat control was.

"Don't leave. You're warm."

"_Please_, make up your mind."

"I want more blankets."

"I don't have any more blankets," he said as patiently as he could, as if to a child.

"Get the one from my bed."

Cinna sighed. He wasn't going to win. "I have to get up for that."

"Then get up."

"You just told me not to."

"Whatever."

Cinna decided to force himself to stand up, if only to breathe not-germ-filled air for a minute. He went to Portia's room, retrieved the blanket, and draped it over her. "Happy?" he asked.

"Very," she mumbled, not sounding it.

Cinna retrieved the washcloth from the floor and got a fresh one, wetting it, again mostly wringing it out, and then going back and tried to lay it on Portia's forehead while she batted his hand away. "It'll help your fever," he said.

"It's _wet_ and _cold_," she groaned.

"You're a terrible patient," he informed her.

"I don't care."

Cinna sighed. He moved and sat up on his side of the bed, hoping it would help keep him awake, since he obviously wasn't getting Portia back to sleep any time soon, and pulled her head into his lap, stroked her hair with one hand, held one of hers with the other. It kept her quiet, at least. Mostly. "Has it been long enough that I can take any more meds?" she asked.

"No. It's only been an hour."

"Well, how long does it have to be?"

"I don't remember."

"Then how do you know it's not an hour?"

"Because it's always longer than an hour."

"Ugh."

"You're very whiny when you're sick," he observed.

"Shut up," she said.

"But at the same time very affectionate."

"Shut up," she repeated.

"It's an interesting contrast."

"You're a horrible doctor."

"I went to _art school, _not _medical_ school."

"Well, so did I, and I could do better than this."

"You're the one sick."

"And I repeat, I don't really give a fuck."

"Then stop whining," he said lightly, and she smacked him.

"I'm hungry," she said then, and at that point Cinna had to laugh for several minutes before he could even respond.

"You were throwing up an hour ago."

"Well, now I'm hungry."

"Do you want soup?"

"Why the hell would I want soup?"

"Because soup is good for you when you're sick."

"You can't eat soup for breakfast."

"That doesn't really matter," he said. "What about toast?"

"Toast isn't healthy."

"I'll get whole-grain toast with whole-fruit jam."

"'Whole-fruit jam' isn't a thing."

"I'll get the closest I can find."

"Do we have anything with chocolate in it?"

"You're sick. And you just said you want something healthy. And you don't even like chocolate."

"Well now I want it."

"It's bad for your sinuses."

"I don't care now."

"You're very demanding." He moved the washcloth that she kept trying to get rid of back onto her forehead. She glared up at him but didn't move her head out of his lap. "Toast and a chocolate version of one of your beloved protein shakes," he said.

"_Fine_," she growled.

He managed to get her to stop clinging to him long enough to go to the kitchen, order said food, and return, setting it next to her. "Happy?" he asked again. She just scowled and started slowly picking at the toast. "You should sit up. Eating lying down is bad for—" He stopped at her glare. "I know, I know, you don't care."

"Mmgh." And then she went into a sneezing fit and apparently couldn't think of a clever enough response while doing so to say anything. At some point she refused to keep eating, about three bites in, and Cinna cleaned up the food. She promptly threw up the three bites she had eaten into the still-handy trashcan. They got that cleaned up, too.

_This is gonna be a long day,_ he thought.

And it was.

All day.

Portia was always hungry except when it was around actual mealtimes, at which points she would start throwing up again. She was always thirsty except when Cinna said something about water. She always wanted more of the cold medicine, until it was actually time to take it, at which point she talked about doctors being frauds. She was cold and when Cinna turned the heat on, she was hot. He'd turn the air on, and then she would be cold. She clung to Cinna's arm and she never slept. She refused to keep the cloth on her forehead or let Cinna take her temperature. She coughed and sneezed and threw up some more, although that had stopped in early evening.

And Cinna was pretty sure that he had a much worse headache than she did, although he tried to be patient. He tried to stay calm. And Portia was, if even unintentionally, really, really pushing him. At one later point she was again curled up against his side, head on his shoulder, arms around his neck. He held the book he was reading aloud to her in one hand, stroked her sweaty hair back from her forehead with the other.

"I think your fever broke. And you look less sick. Do you feel any better?" he asked gently, at a chapter break.

She nodded.

"Good," he said.

"I still want to go to work," she said.

Cinna sighed. "If you're still not throwing up and your temperature stays down, I'll let you go tomorrow." He knew he wasn't going to win the fight, and Portia was going to give him hell until he let her go.

"Okay," she said, and snuggled a bit closer to him. Then she yawned. "I'm sleepy." And yet she kept talking. "But I'm also hungry again. Do we have any more ice tea? It's hot in here. Can I take more pills yet?"

"Are you sure you don't want to just _go to sleep_?" he asked, since it was worth a shot.

"No. Now I'm awake."

Cinna let his head fall back against the headboard with a _thud. _Then he sighed. "Do you want to eat?"

"Not really."

"You just said you were hungry."

"But I'm not in the mood to eat. It's too cold."

"You just said it was hot."

"And now it's cold."

"So I'm guessing you don't want ice tea?"

"No. I still do." She sniffled.

"Even though it's cold."

"I'm thirsty."

"You could have _warm_ tea."

"I don't want warm tea."

"What about water?"

"Eh."

"Portia, you need to drink water," he said in his best stern teacher-y voice.

"I don't like water," she tried.

"You don't. Like. Water," he echoed, ready to jump off a bridge. "So, what _do _you want?"

"Ice tea and for you to turn the thermostat up and more pills."

"You can't have more pills."

"Just because a box says so?"

"We've been over this, snowflake." He managed to shake her off enough to stand up. "I'll get your ice tea and change the thermostat." In the hallway he just stood out of view of the room for a second resisting the urge to give himself a concussion on the doorframe. Not a _bad_ concussion. Just one bad enough that he could get a break.

But he didn't. He turned up the thermostat even though it felt as if it were a thousand degrees already and ordered ice tea in the kitchen, then brought it back to Portia. She took a sip and then put it down and seemed to forget that it was there.

He got back in bed, still pondering where the nearest bridge was, but didn't take back his part of the blanket. Which was a rather small, not-really-existent part of the blanket, anyway.

And their conversation seemed to repeat.

Portia yawned. "I'm tired."

"Then we should sleep. We have work in the morning according to you."

"According to me?"

"As in, according to you, you're going."

"Of course I am."

"We'll see how you feel in the morning."

"Fine. So let's sleep."

Cinna decided to move quickly, before Portia changed her mind, which she was also prone to doing when sick. It was amusing before it got annoying—like talking to an entirely different person. Cinna laid down under the blanket this time and shut the lights, let Portia curl up closer to him. "The sooner you fall asleep, the sooner it'll be morning."

"It'll be morning regardless of when I fall asleep."

"It'll just seem that way, then," he said, now yawning, himself. "Go to sleep, Portia."

"Fine, fine."

There was just quiet, and a few minutes later, she was asleep. Cinna quickly followed.


End file.
